


Nowhere to Hide

by Thalia DMuse (truth_renowned)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Mulder/Scully UST - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6220333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truth_renowned/pseuds/Thalia%20DMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone from Scully's past resurfaces... Happens in late fall of 1996, but does not involve anything from Season 4. Completed in 1997.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I have dreamt of this day for so long.

Days seemed like years, years seemed like decades. The prospect of seeing you again has fueled my desire to get through these days as calmly and quickly as possible. I knew this day would come if I waited patiently.

I have always been a patient man.

My time away from you has not lessened my wanting you. Although they tried to weaken my spirit and my mind, my desire for you has grown like a sunflower in the Spring, bending and swaying towardthe sun. You have been the sun in my dreams and I await the moment when I can feel your warmth under my fingertips.

They know not of my dreams about you. I could not tell them. They would not understand. They told me I was sick and needed help. They were right. I knew they were right. I am a vile excuse for a human being.

But no amount of psychologists' fancy words and fancy medications can kill the demon lurking within. That demon owns me and I do his bidding. He owns me - mind, body and soul.

I am who I am.

Society believes in a standard set of norms, of acceptable behavior. Anyone who veers from those norms is considered deviant. How can one be deviant in doing what only comes naturally? I do not regret anything I have done.

It is who I am, who I have become.

At a young age, I knew I was different. No one appreciated my unique outlook on life, least of all my mother, but she did nothing to help the boy who filled his days with 'deviant' fantasies. If anyone is to blame for my actions, it is her. She was a selfish woman, apathetic in my upbringing and uncaring to my plight. An unwanted child, I got in her way. She would brush me aside like an annoying gnat buzzing in her face.

After the unfortunate accident that claimed my father and sisters, I reached out for my mother's love and she turned a blind eye. I wanted her attention, craved it, but her only interest in life was her beauty: how to improve upon it, how to prolong it and how to disguise her imperfections. Imperfections, she said, that were my fault. I decreased her beauty with my delinquency, she used to say. I made her old beyond her years. She resented me for that, and I in turn loathe her for the life to which her cruelty has banished me.

I am the man I am today because of her.

My mother was the one who told me our bodies are but a shell for the spirit to linger while we walk this earth. When we die, the spirit has two options. If the spirit is good, it will take flight toward the Heavens. If it is evil, it will sink to the fiery depths below. She said my spirit was evil and I would meet my demonic creator soon enough.

Maybe my mother was right. If so, I will see her in Hell.

Through much patience, I have escaped my own earthly version of Hell: the psychiatric prison, where I have been forced to reside for the past two years. The guards there are ignorant fools. Put on an angelic face, eat all of your vegetables, say "Yes sir" and "No sir" when spoken to, and they become putty in your hands. The lifeless guard who now occupies my cell knows how an angel can become a demon in the blink of an eye. However stupid they are, they will soon know I have escaped and will come looking for me.

But not before we meet again, my darling Dana. Our time together before I left was so brief, the fine details of your exquisite face threatening to melt from my mind like the wax from an overused candle. Those memories have stayed with me for so long,  
visiting me in dreams, caressing me in sleep.

From the moment I learned your name I have dreamt of you. Scully, like the baseball announcer. Such an unfeminine image that name conjured up in my mind. Since then I have thought of you as Dana. Only Dana. Dana, Mother of the Gods. Much more appropriate.

Such a beautiful girl. Hair so much like fire I hesitate to reach out and touch it for fear of being burned. I remember what those red strands feel like between my fingers. I have dreamt of having those silky soft strands, slippery and sudsy from the shampoo, slide through my fingers as I squeeze the life from your body, wordless gasps escaping your lips, which are painted in Copper Cascade - my favorite shade. My fingers dig into the flesh of your delicate neck, leaving scarlet imprints in your creamy skin. You scream for mercy. I scream in pleasure. Finally, your body goes  
limp. And that is when my fun really begins.

That fantasy has filled hundreds of nights for me. The reality will fill me for the rest of my life.

I see you exiting your vehicle, your magnificent hair announcing your presence before I can recognize your body. You have your luggage with you. Another investigation for the pretty FBI agent.

I hope you enjoyed your trip, dear Dana. It was your last.

It is my destiny to decide your fate, and your fate is to be my possession. You will be my piece de resistance, my finest trophy. You eluded me once, but never again. I will find you no matter where you are.

There's nowhere to hide, girlie-girl.


	2. Chapter 2

Annapolis, Maryland   
Thursday, 12:05am

Home sweet home at last.

Dana Scully heaved the garment bag onto her bed and kicked off her shoes. Another bizarre case with a predictable, and very human, ending. At least this one solved itself quickly and painlessly. She and Mulder had been gone less than two days. She winced at the thought of how much paperwork awaited her for a case that lasted less than forty-eight hours.

After shedding her jacket and tossing it next to the garment bag, Scully walked to the living room and hit the play button on her answering machine. Two messages from her mom, one from Hammersely in Fingerprinting. She scribbled his phone number on a pad of paper and was about to hit the stop button when the last message began. It was a snippet of a song, she realized:

Everywhere I go,  
your face I see.  
Every step I take,  
you take with me.

Nowhere to run to, baby. Nowhere to hide. Got nowhere to run to, baby. Nowhere to hide.

Scully's eyebrow arched as she listened to the lyrics and the disconnecting click immediately following. She shrugged and headed to the bedroom to change.

She slipped into a pair of jeans and a light cotton sweater, then began unpacking her garment bag, separating the clothing into piles for laundry and dry cleaning. She gathered the laundry pile and a handful of quarters from her dresser. She was on her way out to the kitchen when the phone rang.

Juggling the clothes over one arm, she grabbed the phone. "Hello?"

Before she finished her one-word greeting, Scully could here the familiar upbeat music begin:

Nowhere to run to, baby. Nowhere to hide. Got nowhere to run to, baby. Nowhere to hide.

"Listen, I don't know who you are but..." She heard a click, then another.

The line went dead.

///////////x///////////

I don't look like the Motown type, do I, girlie-girl?

You probably pegged me more the country boy. Never could get into that twangy stuff. I guess I should hate Motown, as it was always on the radio or record player at my house growing up. My mom loved it, would walk around the house singing and humming to the likes of Sam Cooke, The Temptations, and yes, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas. I should hate that music because my mom loved it but it grew on me. The steady, rhythmic beat was mesmerizing. It had the ability to brighten the darkest of my moods. I spent so much of my time in the dark as a child but the music always seeped in, like a tiny beacon of light, lifting me, carrying me away from the darkness.

I welcome the darkness now like an old friend. I hold a certain reverence for it now. The darkness hides that which wants to hide, allowing the shadows to cover the secrets of the night like a blanket. I am one of those secrets. For now. Soon I will crawl from beneath the protection of the blanket and claim what is rightfully mine.

Your face was a vision as you listened to that message. Your beautiful brow furrowed in analytical thought, wondering why the song was left on your machine. Your sea-green eyes narrow in confusion for a second before dismissing the message as a mistake. A wrong number.

Wrong, indeed.

The memory of your beautiful hair silkily twining around my fingers grows stronger. I can almost feel it, my fingers twitching with the memory. So soft, your hair. Not dry, not oily. A pleasure for eyes and hands. My breath quickens every time I think of the feel of your luxurious hair on my hands, my face, everywhere on my body.

Soon, Dana. Soon.

///////////x///////////

Scully pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it. Sighing in annoyance, she placed the receiver back in its cradle and walked into the kitchen. Opening the pantry door, she grabbed the bottle of liquid laundry detergent and headed for the front door. She managed to get the door open when her phone rang again. She took another step before turning back, deciding to put the caller, and herself, out of their misery.

She re-entered her apartment and stomped to the phone.

"You have the wrong number," she said sternly into the receiver. "Please do not call again."

She heard a sigh on the other end of the line before a familiar voice intoned, "I don't know what I did this time, Scully, but I'm sorry. I think."

"Oh, it's just you."

"So happy to hear your cheerful voice, too."

Her mouth twitched into a smile. "Mulder, you haven't been calling and playing Motown songs into the receiver, have you?"

"No, but if that will get me somewhere, I'll go update my music collection tonight."

Her smile widened despite her exasperation. "Don't bother. That song is beginning to grate on my nerves. Anyway, I'm sure it's just a wrong number. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"You have my reading glasses in your carry-on."

"Since when?" Scully shifted the clothes in her arms.

"Since I put them in there because my coat was in the overhead. Remember? I didn't want to climb over anyone to put them away."

Scully nodded. "Yeah, I remember. Don't you have a spare pair?" She heard the crack of a seed shell reverberate through the receiver. "Never mind, don't answer that. I know you don't. You need them before you fly out for that consult, don't you?"

He cracked another shell in her ear. "Yeah, but I can just get them in the morning."

She closed her eyes, knowing she didn't want to know the answer to the question she was about to ask. "What time does your flight leave?"

"Six-thirty." He paused as he heard her groan. "Why don't I just come and get them tonight. You'll be up for a while, won't you?"

"Yeah, I'm just about to put a load of clothes in the washer. How long will it take you to get here?"

"I want to grab a quick shower and finish repacking, so how about an hour and a half?"

"I'll be here."

She replaced the receiver and gathered her laundry again. Before picking up the laundry detergent and her keys, she grabbed the newest issue of the New England Journal of Medicine. The magazine had arrived while she was out of town, and she figured she could peruse it while waiting for her clothes. Her favorite emerald green blouse had been stolen from the washer the last time she decided to wait in her apartment instead of the stuffy basement laundry facilities. There was no way she was leaving her clothes unattended in the laundry room again.

///////////x///////////

I'm disappointed in you, Dana.

Your hair is shorter, much shorter than last we met. From the back the cut looks easy to maintain, I suppose. Thin wisps of fire lightly kissing your elegant, tapered neck and curling to the side ever so slightly. From the front it surrounds your face like a fiery aura. Still that beautiful tone of auburn. Cinnamon Sun, I believe is the shade. I just wish you hadn't cut it so short. I don't like it this short.

I can't see your fingernails. Are those shorter, too? I hope not. I do not approve of your new look, Dana.

You have lost weight. You are much too thin now. Women today, constantly measuring themselves against the waif-like models in magazines. I thought you were above that sort of vanity, but I know from watching my mother for so many years that some women go to great lengths to make themselves beautiful not only to others but to the eyes of the mind.

You will never change in my eyes. You will always be my Dana, even after you are gone. Always the Dana from my mind's eye: shoulder- length hair of fire, deep seafoam-green eyes, manicured nails at a functional yet sophisticated length. Fire and brimstone in a small, beautiful package.

Your phone rings again. Popular gal, aren't you? Is it a man? From the content smile on your lips I would guess the answer is 'yes'. Is he asking you out on a date? I would imagine with your job you have a rather limited social life. Your smile turns seductively coy. You just accepted his invitation, didn't you, Dana? Where is he taking you? To dinner, then to his place for dessert?

Don't you dare make any plans, girlie-girl. You have but one man to meet and that is me. I know where you are headed and I will see you there.

The laundry room. It's a date.

///////////x///////////

Scully found the room deserted and clean, much to her delight. Though it was inconvenient having the laundry facilities in the basement of the building, the padded folding chairs were tolerable and the room had recently been remodeled. Scuffed bright-white walls were redone in a soothing beige. The matted carpeting -- she had never understood why it was carpeted in the first place -- had been ripped up and replaced with smooth beige and white marbled tile.

She plunked a dollar's worth of quarters into the washer and added the detergent while the cylinder filled with water. Once the washer was half-full, she carefully arranged her clothes in an even fashion in the washer and closed the lid. She crossed the room and sat in a chair.

Thoroughly engrossed in an article about molecular pathology, she was surprised to hear the washer stop so soon. She placed the journal on the chair next to her and went to the washer, extracting her clothes and moving to the dryers against the back wall. She dug a quarter out of her pocket and inserted it into the coin slot, then shut the dryer door and selected the delicate setting. The machine whirred to life, the grinding and screeching of the much-used and abused machine creating the only sounds in the room.

Scully watched the clothes toss and tumble in the dryer, their destination never the same, never getting the chance to stay in one spot too long before being tossed into a new setting. She thought about how stable her life could be had she chosen differently, becoming a medical examiner or researcher, even a wife and mother, instead of being tossed into new and unusual situations as an FBI agent working on the X-Files.

She laughed to herself. Who was she kidding? She wouldn't be happy in that life. In the past four-and-a-half years she had become addicted to her work as if it were some kind of drug that she needed in order to survive. She thrived on the variety and intellectual stimulation of working with someone as brilliant and driven as Fox Mulder. She enjoyed the challenges of solving cases that had long since been considered hopeless. For all the strife and heartache she had experienced while working with Mulder, the work they did was important and necessary. For all of the cases that remained unsolved, those few triumphs gave her a feeling of self-worth. And for all the monsters they faced, being able to stop even one of them in their quest for the destruction of others made the work rewarding and life-affirming. At this point in her life, Scully couldn't see herself doing anything else.

She was so lost in thought, and distracted by the machine's noisy mechanism, that she failed to hear the footsteps slowly approaching. Pain exploded at the back of her head, then a welcome darkness brought her into its embrace.


	3. Chapter 3

Dana Scully's apartment building  
Thursday, 1:40am

"Scully?"

Mulder knocked on her apartment door again, listening for signs of life inside. He looked at his watch and realized he had made good time to her place, less than eighty minutes.

Thinking she might be in the laundry room, he headed down the stairs to the basement. He had done his laundry at her place a few times since the aging facilities at his building were temperamental at best. The laundry room door was open and he peeked around the corner, hoping to surprise Scully and spook her. He smiled. She hated getting spooked. He loved doing it.

Disappointment set in as he scanned the room. She wasn't there. Clothes sat in an idle dryer across the room. He looked around again and saw a magazine on one of the folding chairs. As he walked closer, the cover came into view. The New England Journal of Medicine.

Scully had been in the room earlier, but where was she now? She knew he was on his way.

*Maybe she ran an errand,* he thought as he walked to the dryer. He put his hand against the glass. The dryer was cool to the touch. He opened the dryer door and pushed the clothes around, feeling slightly naughty as he fingered his partner's lingerie. The clothes were definitely hers. He recognized one pale blue blouse as one she had worn during their last case.

Mulder fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and hit the speed dial. He let it ring until it clicked over to her voice mail.

Something was wrong. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, but something about the room made his skin crawl. Looking down he saw a smudge on the floor, a dark streak out of place on the light marbled tile. He squatted and ran his finger over a corner of the smudge, then brought it to his nose.

Blood.

His breath quickened immediately as panic began to invade his senses.

*Scully.*

Mulder tore the room apart, upturning chairs, opening all washers and dryers, and even overturning the tall trash can in the corner of the room. Dryer sheets, empty detergent boxes and lint mixed together as he kicked the contents around. Then he saw it.

A syringe.

Mulder got on his hands and knees and dug deeper into the mess. When he found nothing in the debris, he checked between and behind each washer. He was about to give up when between the fifth and sixth washers, shoved against the wall, he spied something. He grabbed a wire hanger from the folding table and straightened it, then fished out the object between the washers. His stomach went to his throat when he saw what it was.

A vial.

He read the label. Secobarbitol sodium. A barbiturate of some sort, a sedative.

Mulder bolted from the laundry room, slamming the door shut behind him. He took the stairs three at a time and blew through the stairwell door when he reached her floor. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and with a shaky hand, he inserted her key into the lock and thrust open the door.

"Scully!"

He ran from room to room, his panic escalating into an overwhelming sense of dread. Finding no sign of her, he left her apartment and sprinting back to the stairwell. *Please let her be there. Please let her have just run a quick errand.* He arrived at the laundry room, finding it still empty. She wasn't there.

*Where the hell is she?* He leaned against a nearby wall, his breath labored and his heart racing. He knew he could be overreacting but the feeling he had when he saw the smudge of blood had returned with a vengeance. It was the same feeling he had back in 1994 during the Duane Barry case.

Someone had taken her.

///////////x///////////

Forgive me, Dana.

I'm so sorry for what I had to do. I did not want to hit you but it was necessary. I should not have hit you so hard. I guess I got carried away with the moment. Blood is always so difficult to get out of hair. It clings to the strands, matting it and seeping into the roots.

And these damn gloves don't make it easy! I cannot feel your hair through them. It is so aggravating to have your hair at my fingertips but not have the ability to feel it. But like the blow to your head, the gloves are necessary. As was the sedative. It packs a punch, I know from experience, but it was the only one I could find in the drug cabinet on my ward, the cabinet with the broken lock.

I was probably foolish to leave the vial there but I was running out of time and could not stop to retrieve it. Do you think _he_ will find it? Will he be the one, Dana? You know who I'm talking about. Your partner. Is that all he is, Dana? Just a partner? I get the impression it is more than that. I got that impression when you were in the jail two years ago, interviewing the man you thought was me.

Have you and your partner become more than co-workers, more than friends? Do you take your work home with you, literally? Do you two talk about work in bed, your naked limbs entwined and sated bodies still joined? Just what kind of partner is he, Dana?

Never mind. It doesn't matter, really. You will never see him again. He will not find you alive. None of them will. I know they will eventually figure out what has happened to you, but not until my mission is complete. I need to keep the foxes at bay for just a bit longer.

They cannot take you away from me again. I will not let them. Not until I have realized my biggest dream. For two years this dream has filled my existence with the promise of the ultimate fulfillment: possessing you.

My dreams during my incarceration consisted of dozens of scenarios of how I would come to possess you. Taking you from your office, from the airport parking lot, from the grocery store or the beauty salon. Over time I narrowed them down to one, the one that is becoming reality before my very eyes. I knew this was the right one. I knew it would work.

It's not far, the journey we have to make. The place I have chosen is a dream in itself. The guard at the facility I was at, Jim... this was to be his retirement home. I have seen pictures of it, and I even know the exact location. Jim was so proud of it, saved his whole life to afford such a luxury in his golden years. I hated to snatch it from him. Made me sad to think I was taking something from someone who wanted it so. But I need it. _We_ need it, Dana.

The cabin is set back in the woods, two miles from the nearest dwelling. It is perfect. Your screams will be for my ears only. A sweet symphony with me as the sole audience. I shudder in anticipation as I remember your voice: a deep, sensuous alto, caressing my ears like a sultry torch song. I want to hear that voice again so badly. I want to hear that silky-smooth voice speak my name. I want to hear it scream, cry, beg for mercy. These are the sounds that will be music to my ears.

Sleep now, my Dana. We will be there soon.

///////////X///////////

Mulder's mind went into overdrive. His fingers danced automatically over the cell phone. He dialed a pager number he had been told to never dial unless it was a dire emergency. Punching in his cell phone number, he added the numbers '911' as an afterthought. It couldn't get any more dire than this.

For ten minutes, he paced the length of the laundry room, stopping only to look at his watch and curse. He hated bringing someone into it but he knew he needed the help and resources. If it was _Them_ who had taken her, he wanted this man on his side. He had learned over the past few years that he was an ally of sorts, not completely trustworthy but one who had a similar vision. One who also had some resources far more underground and invisible than Mulder's own contacts.

He nearly dropped the phone when it rang. "Mulder," he barked.

"This had better be good, Agent Mulder."

He immediately recognized the strained tone of his boss' voice.

"Sir, Agent Scully is gone."

"What?"

Mulder could visualize the vein in Walter Skinner's head throbbing to some internal beat. "I found a syringe and vial of a strong sedative, along with blood. Someone has taken her."

Silence filled the air as the younger agent again mentally pictured his boss, his jaw clenched and jutted out slightly as he mulled over Mulder's words.

"You're sure?" was his ultimate response.

"Sir, I wouldn't have called you if I wasn't."

More silence followed before Skinner replied. "Agent Mulder, if I send a forensics team down there and they..."

"Sir," Mulder interrupted, "I'm positive this is foul play." He knew Skinner wouldn't deny him an investigation. This was Scully they were talking about.

"I'll send a team out within the hour," Skinner finally said. "The men I'm sending are not going to be in an official capacity. Let them do their job, Mulder. They are not there to obey your every wish. I hope I have made myself clear."

Mulder never got the chance to reply, as the disconnecting click stopped him mid-breath. Placing the phone in his jacket pocket, he walked to the chairs, lowering himself into the one next to her magazine. He stared at the cover, wondering what article she had been reading before...

He cupped his face in his hands while he fought the intense waves of dread and nausea crashing through his body. Someone came into this very room and forcibly took his partner. He arrived too late to keep it from happening. She was gone.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

///////////X///////////

Very nice car, Dana. I have always liked these sport utility vehicles. Always wanted to own one but never got the chance. And nearly a full tank of gas. So thoughtful of you. It's almost as if you knew I would be coming for you. Everything has gone so smoothly. You must have known somehow and resolved yourself to the fact that I would come for you.

Fate is a powerful force, Dana. I don't suppose you believe in that sort of thing. You probably believe that we decide our own destinies. No, fate and destiny are decided for us, not by us. We are a product of our environment, as well as our genes.

Do you think I chose to have these urges and desires, to find sexual and emotional pleasure from mutilating another human being? Although, I must admit that if I had been given a choice, I'm not sure I would have chosen differently. The power derived from each lock of hair I cut, the sheer pleasure of feeling it between my fingers and knowing it is mine to take, is too addictive. More addictive than any drug.

I am too weak to fight the urges. They devour me. They control me. They make me who I am. Even the tragic death of my family members could not stop the demon within. Instead of reminding me of their deaths, these acts have fueled the ever-growing urges flowing through my veins. The more I take, the more I want.

But you know this already, don't you, Dana? Your partner knows all about people like me, doesn't he? One of the perks of my incarceration was my nearly unlimited access to a library. Boswell has one of the best library facilities of any prison, psychiatric or otherwise. I read all about your partner in past issues of newspapers and journals. A golden boy, a brilliant profiler with the unenviable ability to get into the minds of men like me. I'm sure he filled you in about all of my faults and flaws, what makes me tick, how and why I do what I do.

A fat lot of good that will do him now. I have you, and all of his abilities and intelligence cannot change that fact. I have you because fate has decided that you are to be mine. No one can challenge fate.

No one.

Not your partner.

Not you.

Not even me.

///////////X///////////

The forensics team arrived an hour after Mulder had spoken with Skinner. Through clenched teeth, the agent answered their requisite questions of "Did you touch anything" and "Was this how the room appeared when you arrived." He then left the team of two to gather evidence.

He trudged his way up the stairs, his legs moving instinctually and reaching their destination before he knew where he was. He pushed her front door open, looking around the room, noting how 'Scully' it looked. Comfortable, inviting, familiar.

Their discussion earlier that evening flared in his mind, and out of curiosity, he pressed the play button on her answering machine. He heard her mother's familiar voice on two of the messages, then a male voice identified as Hammersely from the Bureau. The fourth message intrigued him, probably as much as it had intrigued Scully when she heard it:

Everywhere I go, your face I see. Every step I take, you take with me.

Nowhere to run to, baby. Nowhere to hide. Got nowhere to run to, baby. Nowhere to hide.

If it was a clue to her disappearance, he had no idea what it could mean. With a sigh, Mulder lowered himself to the couch and buried his head in his hands. They did it again. Coming in on the shadows of the night, they whisked her away in mere minutes. He had spoken to her less than ninety minutes before he arrived at her doorstep. Amazing how ninety little minutes, a microscopic speck in the grand scheme of time, could change one's life so drastically.

They had broken him, nearly destroyed him the last time they took her. He went through the motions of living in those three months, his body alive but his soul dark and lifeless. The two most important people in his life were taken from him and he had been helpless to save them. The smoking bastard had told him Scully had been "returned" to him, as if she were his property or a material possession. That was how the old man thought of people. Trophies to be won or lost, possessions to be kept or taken. In all his cynicism, Mulder thanked whomever was listening above that they had not taken from him his genuine caring for others. If not for that, he would be even less human than the Cancer Man himself.

A familiar voice startled him, shattering his mental visit to Hell.

"Any word from her?"

Mulder's head snapped up to see his boss standing in the doorway. "No, sir. Nothing."

"You're sure she has been taken and just didn't..."

"Look," Mulder replied, his voice like gravel, "she's gone. I found her gun on her bedroom dresser. I _know_ her. She rarely leaves her apartment without her gun anymore. And if she did leave without it for some reason, she wouldn't take off with it sitting in plain sight, even if it was an emergency."

Skinner ground his teeth together, his jaw moving like the mechanism of an old watch, back and forth. "Agent Scully's car is gone. Were you aware of that?"

"So?" Mulder replied, his eyes narrowed to skeptical slits. "What difference does that make? That bastard had her taken and they moved her car to make it look like she took a little trip. They couldn't know I was on my way over here tonight." He rose from the couch, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.

Skinner's nod was barely perceptible. "We'll know soon enough. They just finished downstairs and are heading to the lab. I hope you haven't wasted their time."

"Yeah, well I hope I have," Mulder mumbled as he brushed past his boss and out the open door.


	4. Chapter 4

Walter Skinner's office   
J. Edgar Hoover Building   
Wednesday, 4:05am

Skinner watched as Mulder paced the distance between the door and the long table seated just inside the office. The agent looked like a caged tiger, his eyes darting around the room at each tiny noise, each soft word spoken.

The assistant director surprised himself by being able to amass a small team of three men and one woman, including the two forensics personnel, at such an ungodly hour of the morning. These were agents he knew to be clean, each having gone through an official background sweep, as well as a thorough check through unofficial means. The game had changed and Skinner never knew who was in whose pocket. The players changed frequently and the four agents he had woken from sleep in the early morning hours were the most reliable he had.

Not that he trusted any of them. He surprised himself again by coming to the realization that the only person in the room within whom he had an inkling of trust was Fox Mulder. They had a common enemy: corruption. They had a common goal: the truth. They went about it by different means, but the goal was still the same.

Out of the corner of his eye, Skinner saw one of his forensics team at the open door, tentatively waiting for permission to enter.

"Agent Quiroz, come in."

Mulder turned to the door and rushed to Marco Quiroz, beating the assistant director to the young agent's side.

"Is it her blood?" Mulder asked in as even a tone as he could muster.

Skinner insinuated himself between the agents and turned to Quiroz. "What have you found?"

Quiroz's big brown eyes looked indecisively between Skinner and Mulder. He had only been with the Bureau for six months, but he had heard about Spooky Mulder and his partner the first week he was in Forensics. Mulder was... well, just like his nickname. Spooky. And no one knew for sure why Dana Scully had remained by his side for so long. Some speculated that the relationship went beyond partnership but there was no evidence to support it. Despite the rumors, Quiroz treated Mulder and Scully with the same respect he would any agent. Their requests were sometimes odd but he knew their success rate was one envied by every other agent in the building.

Quiroz finally settled his gaze on the senior-ranking man in the room. He was no fool. This was his chance to shine in front of the Assistant Director. "Sir, the blood on the floor as well as the blood residue on the needle did match Agent Scully's bloodtype. I ran a preliminary DNA test. It's not completely accurate, mind you, but it does seem to match Agent Scully's DNA as well. A more reliable DNA testing will take several more hours..."

"We don't have several more hours," Mulder mumbled under his breath. He ran a hand over his face before continuing. "The secobarbital. It's a sedative, right?"

Quiroz nodded. "Yes, a powerful one. The vial you found was a one- hundred milligram per milliliter vial. It was completely empty when you found it, Agent Mulder?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well, the syringe is a six-cc syringe, indicating a much larger dose than normal."

"What is considered normal?" Skinner interjected.

"I would say one-hundred to three-hundred milligrams. If Agent Scully was given the full one-thousand milligrams that the vial holds..." He paused, shaking his head.

"What?" Mulder bit out through clenched teeth.

"A dose that high could seriously poison or even kill an average adult. Given Agent Scully's size..." Quiroz let his voice trail off, but he continued in a different direction before Mulder could reply. "However, I did see proof that the vial may have been used before. I found two puncture points in the rubberized top of the vial, indicating another possible time of use."

Skinner eyed Mulder, noting the agent's flaring nostrils and rigid jaw. He was ready to explode. The A.D. cleared his throat. "Agent Quiroz, in your opinion, how long would the effects of this sedative last?"

"I can't give you an accurate assessment without knowing the full dosage..."

"Then a ballpark figure," Skinner said, his jaw tight.

Quiroz swallowed before replying. "Given intramuscularly? Anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours maybe. But that would be for a normal dose. A higher one could last several hours."

Skinner nodded. "Thank you, Agent Quiroz. That will be all."

Quiroz opened his mouth to speak but closed it upon eyeing the two men in front of him. He chose instead to back away and leave the room as quickly as possible.

Mulder ran a hand across his mouth. "They got her again. Right under my damn nose."

"There is no evidence to indicate that anyone having to do with Agent Scully's disappearance before..."

"The hell there isn't!" Mulder rebutted, raising his voice and drawing the attention of the two other men in the room. "A syringe with her blood on it. They _wanted_ me to find it."

"Agent Mulder, keep your voice down," Skinner growled forcefully. "Maybe whoever did this heard the elevator on its way down to the basement and ditched the vial out of haste. Maybe they didn't think it would matter since it's obvious they wore gloves and left no fingerprints. Regardless, we are doing all we can. I've had her car reported stolen so police agencies, as well as some other personnel, are aware of it."

Mulder knew better than to ask what 'other personnel' Skinner meant. Still, he didn't like the odds. "Not good enough," he spat.

"And you think you can do better?" Skinner challenged.

Mulder met his superior's gaze with unwavering intensity. "Maybe I could. This little piss party sure as hell isn't finding her." His arm swept out, gesturing to the other agents.

"That's it," Skinner said, barely able to contain his anger. "You are off this case as of now. You are too close to this to..."

Mulder shoved past Skinner. "Just try and stop me."

Skinner grabbed the younger agent's arm. "That is not a request. You are not doing Agent Scully any good..."

"I'm not leaving. Sir." He added the last word with exaggerated emphasis. "If you want my badge after this, fine. You can have it."

"You're lucky I don't ask for it now," Skinner intoned through clenched teeth. "Go home, Mulder. I'll call you if we hear anything."

Mulder lowered his head for a moment, then raised it, a complete transformation in his features having taken place in that one nod of his head. His eyes met Skinner's, imploring him to see the guilt, the pain. The need to be the one to find her.

"Sir, please. I have to be a part of this. Scully's my partner and my friend. I'll do whatever you say, just don't take me off this investigation."

Skinner's jaw tightened, his cheek doing a rhythmic dance to the clenching and unclenching movement. "All right. You will go home and get some rest..."

"Sir, I don't need rest. I need to get out there..."

"Take it or leave it, Agent Mulder. Those are the terms. Report back here at oh-seven-hundred." The A.D. paused as he looked at his watch. "That's over two hours. Take a short rest. You won't be any good to her dead on your feet."

His downcast eyes and slouched shoulders admitting defeat, Mulder's head moved in a terse nod. He ignored the stares of the other agents while he left the office.

///////////X///////////

So quiet. I had forgotten how quiet the forest is. It has been nearly twenty-five years since I have seen the forest. Our yearly family vacations were to various campgrounds around the country. I used to love camping, lying in my sleeping bag at night, staring up at the stars through the treetops. I used to imagine I lived in those trees, high above the rest of the living world.

So peaceful, among the trees. So tranquil. And hidden.

The perfect setting, Dana.

The drive is so beautiful. I wish you could see the majesty of the forest surrounding us. This is true beauty, undisturbed by man's greed or vanity. This beauty needs no enhancement. It is beauty and goodness in its purest form.

I hate to do it but I have to stop for gas and supplies. I doubt the cabin will be equipped with what I need and the gas gauge is almost at empty. I'm sure there is some sort of gas station and convenience mart along here somewhere. The sixty-two dollars in Jim's wallet should be enough.

Poor Jim. I hated to kill him. He was one of my favorite guards at Boswell. He used to sit with me at the library while I worked and would talk about his cabin in the woods where he was going to retire and do everything he had always dreamed about doing. Fishing, camping, painting oil paintings of the scenery surrounding his cabin. He even showed me pictures of the cabin, told me exactly where it was. I knew how much he was looking forward to his retirement life. I hated to take that away from him. But it had to be him. Sometimes the good are made to suffer.

He was a lonely old man who loved to talk. And I was willing to listen, even encouraged him by acting interested. My perseverance eventually paid off. He had this cabin and I needed it. It was perfect, like a sign from above.

Here's your chance. Take it.

So I did.

I wonder how long until the gas tank is truly empty. You wouldn't know, would you, Dana? No, not you. You are the type who always has at least one-quarter tank of gas and has all scheduled maintenance done on time. You are the type who has her suits classified by color in her closet. You are the type who has her spices alphabetized in the spice rack.

How close am I, Dana? Pretty close, I think. I can tell that you are very methodical, very organized. Very in control.

Aren't you, Dana?

You like to be in control. You _have_ to be in control. I have imagined you out of control. Wild, aggressive, passionate.

Is that what you are like, Dana, without your control?

I cannot wait to find out.

///////////X///////////

Mulder tossed his keys onto the coffee table, then shed his leather jacket and shoes. He flopped down onto his couch and let his head hit the back cushions.

How had this happened? Why now? Nothing they had worked on in the past few months had been controversial enough to attract _Their_ attention. It was obvious, even to him, that this was not an alien abduction. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized it wasn't the smoking bastard's style, either. Had Mulder not left his glasses in Scully's bag, he would have flown out on his consult, none the wiser to Scully's disappearance. He wouldn't have discovered her missing until he got back the next evening. Cancer Man would make a more flashy show about it, making sure he was there to see her being whisked away, helpless to stop it from happening.

Mulder's thoughts were interrupted by his cell phone. He picked up his jacket from the table and fished out the phone. "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, Moe Bocks here. How are you?"

Mulder grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "This isn't a good time, Moe."

"Well, I think you're going to want to hear this," Bocks replied. "It concerns Donnie Pfaster."

"What about him?"

"He's escaped."

Silence pierced the air. Mulder stopped breathing, his brain processing the agent's two words. He swallowed before responding. "When?"

"Sometime between four and six yesterday evening," Bocks said with a sigh. "Heard about it from one of the guards up there who used to work in Vice in Minneapolis. Good friend of mine. Anyway, I got right on the horn to you. Seems Donnie took out one of the guards, slit his throat with scraps of aluminum cans he'd somehow been hoarding."

As Bocks continued filling in the details, Mulder's mind worked through the time frame. It had to be Pfaster. He must have hopped a plane to DC immediately after his escape. Had he been waiting for Scully to return or did he get to her apartment after she had arrived home? Had Mulder just missed catching him?

Mulder forced his breathing to calm before speaking. "Any leads?"

"Not a one," Bocks answered, frustration evident in his voice. "The guard's wallet turned up missing so we're running a trace on his credit cards. Nothing yet. We don't even know if he's left the city."

"He has." A shiver traveled the length Mulder's spine.

"Now, how would you know that?" Bocks asked cautiously.

"She's gone, Moe. Scully's missing. I was on my way over to her place to get my reading glasses and..." Mulder realized his voice must have sounded weak, even pathetic, to the Minnesota agent, but he didn't care. Scully was in the clutches of her worst nightmare and once again, he was helpless to do anything. "I found blood, a syringe, a heavy-duty sedative..."

"Christ Almighty," Bocks exhaled. "Tell me what I can do to help, Mulder. I'll dig up as much manpower as I can find at this hour."

Mulder's head jerked to the side, snapping the fog from his brain. "Find out if and when he left Minnesota."

"You got it, Mulder. If he's got her, we'll find them. Don't you worry."

Mulder clicked the off button and hastily donned his shoes. Bocks' words offered little comfort, no matter the sincerity in which they were delivered. He could sense the older agent's reluctance to bring up the subject of what kind of killer Donnie Pfaster was. They both knew it wasn't likely that Pfaster would keep a victim alive for long. His victims served no purpose to him as living, breathing entities.

Mulder knew the Donnie Pfasters of the world too well. They were human monsters, untamed rabid animals that lived for nothing but their next kill, feeding off their victim's pain like a den of lions would feed off a gazelle.

Part of the thrill was in the chase, but that wore off too soon. Mulder knew the chase wasn't where Pfaster focused his energy and received the most gratification. The chase was invigorating but not the primary goal.

The real thrill came from the kill. And its aftermath.


	5. Chapter 5

J. Edgar Hoover Building   
Thursday, 5:30am

Mulder burst into his office and ran to the filing cabinet. Roughly pulling the second drawer open, he fingered through the files until he found the one he needed. He grabbed it and ran out of his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way to Skinner's office in less than a minute. Without knocking, Mulder pushed the door open. Skinner's head turned as the agent stormed in and tossed a file folder on his desk.

"That's our man," Mulder stated flatly. He met Skinner's gaze with a intense glare, defying the man to answer.

"What are you talking about?" Skinner hissed, his anger boiling at Mulder's intrusion.

"I'm talking about Donald Addie Pfaster."

Recognition flared in Skinner's eyes. He reached for the folder and skimmed the first page of the report, his recognition blossoming with each word.

"The fetishist, took hair and fingernails from his victims," Skinner remembered aloud. "He kidnapped Agent Scully while you two were on the case in... Minnesota, right?"

Mulder nodded tightly. "Scully was the only one who got away, so she is different in his eyes. His need to possess her, to control her, has to be overwhelming. And we know he's not above killing to get what he wants." The implication of his words hung in the air like a thick fog.

Skinner brushed his chin with his fingertips, his gaze still fixed on the report. "It says here Pfaster is currently residing at the Boswell Psychiatric Prison."

"He was. Until today." Mulder paused, making sure he had Skinner's undivided attention. He continued when the Assistant Director's eyes met his. "I just got a call from Moe Bocks in the Minneapolis field office. Pfaster escaped, killed a guard in the process. They figure he escaped sometime between four and six last night. The guard was found in a supply closet in the same building where Pfaster worked as a library assistant. Part of his rehabilitation," Mulder added with a snort.

Skinner's response was interrupted by the sound of a cell phone ringing. Mulder reached into his jacket pocket. "Mulder."

"Wish I had good news for you."

Mulder tensed at the sound of gloom in Moe Bocks' voice. "What have you got, Moe?"

"The trace on the guard's credit cards turned up something. His Visa was used this evening via telephone."

"For what?"

"A one-way ticket to Dulles International," Bocks replied in a somber tone. "Flight left here a little after six. I'm on my way to the prison now to interview some of the guards and to take a gander at Pfaster's cell. I'll call you when I find out more."

Mulder closed his eyes and grunted a "thanks" before disconnecting.

"What?" Skinner asked impatiently.

Opening his eyes, Mulder swallowed. "Pfaster left Minneapolis by plane just after six last night. He's here in DC."

Skinner's gaze fell to the file in front of him, his eyes focusing on the sad, drawn face of Donnie Pfaster. Reluctantly looking away, he reached for the phone and dialed a series of numbers.

"Agents Parks, get yourself and Agents Givens and Quiroz in here now." He met Mulder's pained gaze with his own. "And find me a recent photo of Agent Scully."

///////////X///////////

I cannot believe there was not one convenience store on the way. I thought every town had a 7-11. I did not want to make a grand appearance like that, walking among so many other people, but I had no choice.

My supplies are essential. A small but important part of the whole picture. The means to an end.

Doesn't really matter anyway. No one from the grocery store will remember me. My mother, among others, used to tell me how unspectacular and forgettable I am, and how no one will care, or even notice, when I am gone. No one would care whether I lived or died. No one except me. I learned at an early age that the only person worth living for is me.

If I die as a result of this, that would be most unfortunate but not unexpected. Nor completely unwelcome. After this, I could die a content man, at peace with myself. You are my ultimate trophy, and I am willing to sacrifice what I must in order to have you. Even if that means sacrificing my life.

But that will not happen. I have fate on my side, remember? What's that song? 'Que Sera, Sera'. Whatever will be, will be. _This_ will be, Dana. It will happen. Everything will happen exactly as I have planned. I have figured out everything down to the smallest detail.

First, we will have a meal together. Our first date. I will cook for you. This is a privilege, girlie-girl. I have cooked for no one but myself my whole life. This occasion seemed to warrant something special, however. After the meal will be your cleansing. I can feel my heart beat faster as I think about placing you in the water and bathing you. You must be clean for me. I will accept nothing else.

See, Dana. Every detail leads to the next, each part carefully linked to create the strong chain of events. The cabin, the meal, the cleansing... all of it will lead up to that one moment, the moment when my dream becomes reality.

Our reality. Yours and mine. Together.

This has been the one thought in my head every moment of every day. It is the only thing that kept me going during my days in prison. Only this. This has been the one driving force fueling my existence for the last two years.

Only this. And it will be perfect.

///////////X///////////

The population of Skinner's office had grown from five agents, including Skinner, to ten. Some early risers who were in the office working on other cases heard about Scully's disappearance and joined in the manhunt. Despite her nicknames of "The Ice Queen" and "Mrs. Spooky", Dana Scully was still respected, and more importantly, she was one of their own.

At varying intervals throughout the strategy meeting, all eyes found their way to Mulder. He stood against a wall to the side of the briefing area, his face stony, emotionless. To the casual observer, he seemed professional, even aloof. To anyone who knew him, however, his suffering reflected in his unusually dark eyes. It was something Skinner picked up on immediately.

"You have your assignments, ladies and gentlemen," Skinner said to the roomful of agents. "Every police department in a two-hundred- mile radius has a description of Agent Scully's Explorer, as well as pictures of her and Pfaster. He's had a considerable head start, so we have to act fast. I want check-ins every fifteen minutes." He nodded once and uncrossed his arms, his sign for the meeting to adjourn.

As agents filed out of the office, Skinner made his way to Mulder. "We'll find her. We have some of our best agents on the case..."

"And not a damn thing to go on," Mulder finished. "They could be anywhere by now."

"We're doing all we can. If Pfaster is using her vehicle, he's as good as ours."

Mulder glared at his boss. "It's been over four hours. Pfaster isn't going to keep her alive much longer."

"We'll find her," Skinner insisted, trying to convince both himself and Mulder of that point.

Mulder nodded tersely and grabbed Pfaster's file from the table. "I'll be in my office," he mumbled under his breath on his way out the door.

As he walked down the corridors to the stairwell, Mulder ignored the stares and murmurs just as he always had. He played the loner part well, having had years of practice to perfect the role. What no one in the building knew, however, was how dependent he had become on Scully.

He entered his office and stood in the doorway. How many hours had they spent in this room together? His eyes went to the slide projector. He smiled as he remembered each time he had subjected her to one of Spooky's Slide Shows. He knew they were showy and completely unnecessary but he could never resist evoking a groan or rolled eyes from his partner every time she saw the projector loaded and ready.

Mulder walked to her desk. He brushed his hand over the items on its surface, a memory connected with each one. Her coffee mug, and her exasperation at his inability to make a cup of coffee that didn't threaten to put hair on her chest. Her paper clip holder, and her mock-anger at him when he connected all forty-eight paper clips together as a prank. The photo frame, and her soft expression every time she looked at the picture of her family. He never realized how something as inconsequential as a paper clip could hold so much emotion.

With Pfaster's file still in hand, Mulder moved away from his partner's desk and sat in his chair. He opened the file and flipped through the reports until he got to the last few pages: the follow-up interview Bocks had done six months after Pfaster's arrest. Mulder reread the pages, a tiny thread of sadness weaving its way into his mind as he reviewed Bocks' notes on the troubled boy who grew up to be a human monster.

Donnie Pfaster was the youngest of five siblings, and the only boy. Pfaster hinted that his sisters were all considerably older than him and he sensed he was an unexpected child, or as he told Bocks, "an unwanted accident." Tragedy struck the Pfaster family when Donnie was just ten. With the exception of his oldest sister, who was away at college, the Pfaster family was in a devastating car crash, careening off an embankment on a mountain highway. The accident killed Pfaster's father and three sisters.

Only Donnie and his mother were spared, but not before they were forced to share space with four dead bodies for six hours until rescue workers discovered the mangled wreckage and freed them from the steel morgue. Young Donnie spent a hellish eternity on his stomach, his body pinned under the weight of his three dead sisters, and his father's decapitated head staring up at him from the floorboard.

According to Pfaster, his mother blamed him for the crash, never letting a week go by without telling him how he had killed his father and sisters. His mother suffered disfiguring scars from deep lacerations on her arms, neck and chest, and never forgave him for, as Pfaster said, "turning her from a beauty into a beast."

Through much prodding on Bocks' part, Pfaster confessed that during the car trip, he had decided to punish one of his sisters, Jaclyn, for berating him in front of a group of his friends. He smuggled a pair of scissors into the car and while his sisters and mother slept, the rebellious boy cut Jaclyn's waist-length brown hair to just above her shoulders. When she awoke, she discovered what he had done and screamed at the top of her lungs. Both parents tried to calm the children, and in the process, Pfaster's father lost control of the vehicle.

Pfaster confessed later in the interview that it was not the first time he had punished his sisters in that manner. He had done the same to his oldest sister when he was nine, and despite his actions contributing to the death of his father and sisters, he repeated the act four times to female classmates during his high school career. He said it made him feel strong and in control. He enjoyed taking something so precious and treasured by the girls, all of whom had refused his sexual advances.

Mulder's cell phone rang, startling him back to the present. "Yeah. Mulder."

"It's Moe."

Mulder closed his eyes. "Please tell me you have something."

"Well, I can pretty much confirm that Pfaster's our guy," Bocks said with a sigh. "We found papers stuffed into a rip in his mattress. Guards think he'd been taking the paper and pens from the library. There's pages and pages filled with references to a Dana with fiery hair. Some of them refer to him watching her from outside of her apartment, like a Peeping Tom. He even has an address here, but I doubt it's hers."

"It could be," Mulder supplied, thinking back to the case in Minnesota. "He ran her off the road, remember? He had her badge, her luggage, all of her ID. He's of above-average intelligence, and may have an excellent memory. He could have memorized the address. And Scully's at the same apartment complex she was during that case." He took a deep breath. "What's the address?"

As Moe read her address, including the apartment number, Mulder's eyes slammed shut. Pfaster had been fantasizing about Scully the entire time he was in prison. Bile rose in his throat as he thought back to Pfaster's other victims and the desecrated state of their bodies.

"Mulder, you still there?" Bocks asked quietly.

"Yeah. Just thinking. If he's been planning this for years, chances are he's going to draw it out because he knows this is it, the culmination of his fantasy..." Mulder stopped, his mind switching gears immediately. "What have you got on the guard?"

"Interviewed a few of them. Got Bob Akey right here. He's the one I was telling you about, used to work in Vice. The guard that was killed, Jim Powers, was sixty-two, and has been working at Boswell for eighteen years. He was just a few months away from retiring."

"Did you find anything else about the wallet?"

"Nothing," Bocks replied solemnly. "The credit card was used just that one time. Bob says Jim probably had about fifty dollars on him. We've checked Powers' house but no sign of anything yet."

Mulder shook his head. "Pfaster couldn't have made it there by now. He couldn't take Scully by plane back to Minnesota and it would take days to drive." He paused as his mind changed focus, his brain no longer functioning as an FBI agent but as the monster known as Donnie Pfaster. "He has her somewhere close, probably within a few hundred miles. I would guess some place familiar, but that might not be possible on such short notice. It will be somewhere out of the way, maybe a house that's for sale or possibly a funeral home. It will be clean. He's obsessed about cleanliness. It will have running water, bathroom and shower facilities. Somewhere without a lot of traffic but within a reasonable distance to a supermarket or beauty supply store or some place that sells cosmetics and hair care products. Maybe..."

"Agent Mulder, I just thought of something."

The second voice on the phone startled Mulder and he suddenly realized he was on speaker phone.

"What is it, Mr.... Akey?"

"Yeah. Bob Akey. I just thought of Jim and the cabin he bought a few months ago. He was moving there when he retired. Saved money for the last thirty years to afford it."

"Where?" Mulder asked, his throat tight.

"West Virginia. Lost River, I think he said," Akey replied. "Jim yammered on and on about how secluded and peaceful his cabin was. I'm pretty sure the power was turned on because Jim just flew over there last weekend to take delivery on some furniture. Don't know if or how Pfaster would have found out about it, though. I don't remember Jim talking to any of the inmates about it."

Mulder listened as he tore his desk apart looking for an atlas. He finally found one buried under a mountain of file folders. He flipped to West Virginia and searched for Lost River but to no avail.

"Where is it? Eastern part, northern part of the state?"

"Uh... I think it's the eastern part," Akey answered. "Jim said the closest big town is Keyser, if you consider a population of five thousand to be big."

"Got it," Mulder blurted out as his finger pressed on the atlas. To the right and south of Keyser, in tiny print, were the words 'Lost River'. "It's about a hundred miles from DC." Mulder grabbed the atlas and ran for his office door. "Got an address?"

"No, sorry, Agent Mulder."

"Moe?"

"I'm on it, Mulder."

"Thanks. And check the library to see if there's an atlas or book of maps missing. Pfaster may have smuggled one out." Mulder clicked the off button on his phone and ran for the elevator. He thought about informing Skinner of the new development but he quickly brushed the thought aside. It was a long shot at best, and he didn't want manpower wasted on it if it turned out to be a false lead. Not to mention how long it would take to amass a team and ship them to West Virginia. He could move faster alone.

Mulder kept telling himself those were the real reasons he was refusing to let Skinner know of his whereabouts, and not that he wanted to be the one to find her. She was there, he knew it. Something deep within his body told him Scully was there. She was still alive. He could feel it, could feel her heartbeat in synchrony with his, could hear her voice in his head. He would find her. He _needed_ to be the one to find her. Having her dropped on his doorstep, or at a hospital in a coma, wasn't good enough. He needed to be there.

Looking at his watch, Mulder swallowed. Almost five hours since he had knocked on her door and found her missing. He realized he may not have any choice but to bring in help. The drive was going to take him an hour and a half, or an hour if he broke every traffic law on the books, which was the game plan. As soon as Moe got him the address, he would inform West Virginia police. Then he would call Skinner.

He needed that address, and he needed it fast. Time was of the essence, and Scully's was running out.


	6. Chapter 6

Jim Powers' cabin   
Lost River, West Virginia   
Thursday, 6:00am

Pain throbbed behind Scully's eyes, its intensity thrusting her into consciousness. She blinked several times until she could focus on her immediate surroundings, which consisted of the shadowy outlines of a nightstand.

A shiver ran down her spine as she realized she was lying on a bed, her hands bound behind her. She rolled over and groaned as her left hip made contact with the mattress. At first she thought she had been bruised but the soreness in her backside, coupled with the murky feeling in her head and the putrid film on her tongue told her otherwise.

She had been drugged.

The last thing she remembered was watching her clothes tumbling in the dryer. The back of her head hurt, a dull aching associated with being struck on the head with a blunt object. She had first- hand knowledge of what it felt like to be cold-cocked with the butt of a gun.

She could hear footsteps outside. Light broke under the door as the footsteps got closer. The doorknob moved a fraction of an inch, then returned to its original position. The footsteps started again, dimming after six steps.

Scully shivered again. Where was she? Who was out there? Her senses heightened, she recognized the smell of bacon cooking. Her stomach growled involuntarily as the delicious scent invaded and lingered in her nostrils. She doubted she would be allowed to sample what she was smelling. Kidnap victims were rarely given home-cooked meals while held captive.

She found it difficult to concentrate on an escape plan, the effects of whatever she had been injected with still surrounding her mind like a thick blanket. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog from her brain, but it only made her dizzy and nauseous. Suddenly the bacon cooking in the next room smelled vile. Swallowing back bile, Scully focused on where she was and what she could do to get out.

Foggy brain or not, she knew she needed a basic plan of escape. Mulder had executed a few harrowing rescues during their partnership, but she couldn't count on him to show up in time.

Scully hoped she would have the strength her to save herself.

///////////X///////////

Look at this place! No wonder Jim was excited about retiring here. Quiet, secluded and as close to Heaven as a man like me will ever get. I could spend eternity here among the trees and solitude.

I'm surprised with Jim being a security guard that he never bought an alarm for this place. Maybe he was planning to add one later. Or maybe he thought he would be safe way out here, what with his impressive gun collection. He has some old ones that must be worth quite a bit of money. I'm afraid I may have scratched a few when I broke the door to the display case. Pity.

A fireplace. What a nice touch. The perfect way to create a warm, romantic atmosphere. I'll move the table to the living room and we can have our meal in front of the hearth. We are having eggs, bacon and toast. Nothing fancy, no omelet or eggs benedict. I never was much of a cook, never cared for it. Guess I got that from my mother. I grew up on peanut better and jelly sandwiches, and macaroni and cheese. I have not eaten a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in over twenty years. Funny, I don't miss it.

Out of necessity, I did learn to make a few things well. Scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and jalapeno peppers is one of my specialties. The meal smells scrumptious, if I do say so myself.

If you are a good girl and clean your plate, I have a surprise for you after breakfast. I found the most wonderful shampoo at the grocery store. Herbal something-or-other. It has kiwi and jasmine, with a hint of rosemary. Such an odd combination but it smells so good. The minute I smelled it, I thought of you and how it would smell on your hair. Fruit and spice, and everything nice.

But first, breakfast. First we have our meal, just the two of us. A quiet, cozy breakfast in front of the fireplace. Once our bellies are full, we can retire to the bathroom. The cabin has a claw-foot tub with brass fixtures. It may be a bit awkward for me to reach over the edge, but I can make do.

You will look so lovely in that claw-foot tub, surrounded by bubbles, your hair clean and fragrant, your porcelain skin moist and smooth to the touch. So lovely.

It's almost time, Dana.

///////////X///////////

According to the clock on the nightstand, thirty minutes passed before Scully heard footsteps again. She had tried the door but found it held in place by something. It refused to budge, even when she leaned her full weight against it. Because of the door and the fact that she wasn't sure of the layout of where she was being held, she was unable to hatch an adequate escape plan. She concluded it was best to assess her captor, then assess her options.

She held her breath as she heard footsteps. Her eyes widened as doorknob turned and the door opened. Scully blinked, the bright light from the hallway temporarily blinding her and shadowing her captor's face. The tall figure, illuminated by an aura of backlight, stepped forward.

"Hello, girlie-girl."

Scully gasped.

*No. Oh God, no.*

It had been nearly two years, but the voice sounded as familiar to her as her own.

His hand went to the wall and the overhead light bathed the room in fluorescent waves. Aside from more pronounced lines around his eyes and mouth, Donnie Pfaster looked the same as she remembered. Same neatly-trimmed light brown hair, same sad taupe-colored eyes, same thin demonic smile.

"Breakfast is ready, Dana," he said softly as he approached. For the first time since he had turned on the light, her gaze left his face. She noticed light reflecting off something in his hand.

A needle.

"What... what did you give me?" she choked out.

"Seconal," he replied matter-of-factly as sat on the bed next to her. "I'm glad to see you awake. I was afraid I had given you too much."

"You did, you bastard," she spat, inching away from him. She forced herself to push the pain away and hold her chin high. "What do you want from me?"

His smile widened into a sickening grin. "I think you know what I want, Dana."

Scully swallowed, fighting the urge to retch. Even if she hadn't known of Donnie Pfaster's past, she could see exactly what he wanted by the look in his eye. And from the sound of his voice. Especially his voice. Did he know how much that breathy, almost- effeminate voice revolted her? She wanted to expunge her body of the intonations and textures of his voice that her ears had so carelessly let enter her system.

She had to turn away. "You won't get away with this. You didn't before, and you won't now."

"I already have." His hand reached out to touch her hair. "He's not coming, Dana. Your partner isn't going to ride in on his white horse and save you this time. You belong to me now."

Scully jerked her head away from Pfaster's hand. "Stay the hell away from me!"

He shook his head in amusement. "I guess I should give you a second dose after all. Don't worry, I won't give you as much as last time." Pfaster stood and dug in his pants pocket, producing a vial. He held the vial in one hand and pushed the needle through the rubber top.

As he began to draw the fluid into the syringe, Scully made her move. Channeling her strength, she kicked out with both feet. One of her shoes made contact with his hand, and the heel of the other shoe slammed into his crotch. Pfaster dropped the vial, the glass shattering at his feet. He screamed in pain and let go of the syringe.

Scully scrambled off the bed. Pain slammed into her head with the force of a sledgehammer, causing her to sway. She propelled herself toward the room's entrance, catching herself on the doorjamb with her shoulder. She shook the dizziness and ventured a look behind her.

She was sorry she did.

Pfaster grabbed her arm, roughly pulling her from the doorjamb and pushing her against the wall as he leaned into her.

"Don't do that again," he hissed in her ear. "Don't mess this up, Dana."

Scully cried out as he stabbed the needle into her hip. She could feel the fluid being thrust into her muscle, invading her already weakened system. Pfaster half-dragged her down the hallway and to the dining table, which sat in front of the fireplace. She fought him every step of the way, and it took him several minutes to get her to the table. He finally shoved her down into a chair.

Scully landed on her left side, and pain shot through her entire body. Silver flecks danced behind her closed eyes and waves of darkness threatened to engulf her. She was still reeling from the effects of the first dose, and even though the second dose was minimal, she realized it could be enough to incapacitate her.

"Time for breakfast," Pfaster said cheerfully, the contempt and venom in his voice a distant memory. He grabbed a rope sitting on the table and squatted next to her chair. His hands worked quickly, tying both of her ankles to one leg of the chair. He removed her shoes, his hands lingering over the tops of her feet.

"Such delicate toes," he said as his index finger brushed over her big toe. "You have pedicures, don't you, Dana? I can tell. Even though the polish is chipping, your toenails are smooth and healthy. So lovely."

Scully tried to pull her feet away but the bindings kept her in place. Her skin crawled as his fingers moved up the top of her foot to the ropes surrounding her ankles, his touch feather-light.

Pfaster flinched, as if slapped, then turned to Scully. The smile on his face sent her stomach leaping toward her throat.

"Hungry? I know I am," he said as he rose from his squatted position. He strode to the kitchen, returning seconds later with three plates of food precariously placed in his hands.

Scully swallowed convulsively as she eyed the contents of the plates Pfaster placed on the table. The sight of the egg dish, chunks of green and orange floating in yellowish-white clouds, might have tempted her under normal conditions. However, her appetite had long since vanished. She had no idea what he had put into the food, if anything. Regardless, she wasn't taking any chances.

"I... I'm allergic to peppers," Scully said, surprising herself with her quick thinking. Her thoughts were muddled but she could still fire off excuses to cover her tracks. She silently thanked Mulder for helping her hone her talent.

Pfaster seemed surprised by her response, but quickly shrugged it off. "Then bacon?"

She shook her head. "No, no pork."

A small frown formed on Pfaster's lips. He started to mutter, his words unintelligible, then a smile abruptly replaced the frown. "I have jelly for the toast, if you like."

Scully ran out of excuses, and her hesitation was taken as consent by Pfaster. He jogged to the kitchen and returned with a jar of grape jelly. Waves of dizziness and nausea hit her simultaneously as he began to spread the purple glob onto a slice of toast.

She could almost feel the drug surging through her veins, insinuating itself into her thought process and motor skills. She felt sluggish, like she was moving in slow motion. Control was slipping away from her like water through her fingers. She had to stay in control. She had to fight it, to fight him. She was _not_ going to die. Not here, not like this.

Scully raised her head and she found Pfaster looking at her, concern contorting his features.

"The Seconal is making you sick, isn't it?" He sighed as her head moved infinitesimally in a nod. His expression turned somber and he took the dishes to the kitchen. Once the table was cleared, he untied her legs from the chair.

"You'll feel better after a nice, warm bath," he said with confidence. "The shampoo is wonderfully fragrant. I've heard about how aromatherapy can heal upset stomachs and headaches. We can eat later."

Panic overrode all other senses. "No, no," she said quickly. "I'll have something to eat now. I'm..."

Pfaster shook his head. "No. I don't want you getting sick all over the place. I can wait."

A lone tear descended from Scully's left eye as he helped her from the chair and slowly led her down the hallway. Through the haziness of the sedative, she recalled the crime scene photos of the bodies left in the wake of Donnie Pfaster's obsession. Each face flashed before her eyes like a macabre slide show, the last image causing her to cry out.

She saw herself: hair butchered, fingers severed, body violated.

Her stomach revolted and she began to dry heave. Pfaster hurried her the last few steps to the bathroom and sat her on the closed toilet seat. She forced the contractions down but the effort took nearly all her remaining energy. Her thoughts became disjointed, jumping from subject to subject: family, med school, friends, work.

Mulder.

He had to know she was missing. He had been on his way to her apartment and once he found her gone, he would not stop until he found out what had happened to her. She was going to fight Pfaster with everything she had, but as the Seconal continued to invade her body like a hungry virus, she realized her best effort might not be enough.

For once in her life, Dana Scully admitted she was in over her head. She needed help. She needed Mulder's help, and she prayed he would find her in time.


	7. Chapter 7

Interstate 55   
Thirty miles outside of Lost River, WV   
Thursday, 6:55am

Scenery flew by at the speed of ninety miles per hour. Mulder had the pedal to the floor and his arms vibrated against the shimmying of a vehicle pushed beyond its means. He had the radio off; music suddenly held no appeal.

He ran over every possible scenario in his head. How Pfaster had found out about the cabin, how he had escaped, how much he had planned and how much he improvised. Mulder tried to concentrate on getting into Pfaster's head but every time he did, all he could see was Scully, her image superimposed over one of the victims from the case in Minnesota.

Mulder shook his head violently. She was not dead. He would know if she was dead. Scully was still alive.

The improvisational profile he had done while talking to Bocks and Akey replayed in his mind. The cabin fit into the puzzle perfectly: secluded, within a few hours of DC, uninhabited and equipped with electricity and running water. It wouldn't be as familiar to him as a family house but he had a feeling Pfaster had coaxed details from the unsuspecting guard over a period of time. He probably had a good idea of the rough layout before setting foot in the cabin.

A shrill ringing interrupted the silence. Mulder reached inside his leather jacket for his phone. "Mulder."

"We have an address," a familiar Midwestern-accented voice exclaimed.

Mulder sighed in relief at Bocks' words. "Go ahead."

"Eight-eighteen River Ridge Drive. How far are you?"

He eyed the odometer, judging his distance from the last signpost. "About twenty miles east of Lost River."

"Good!" Bocks replied enthusiastically. "This place is about fourteen miles east of town. You're almost there."

Mulder listened as Bocks gave him landmarks and signs to follow, two of which he had already passed. He kept the car at sixty, fast enough to close the distance quickly but slow enough he could read the signs.

"Stay with me, Moe. I'll need you to call for back-up if this pans out."

"You got it, Mulder."

Static and rhythmic breathing filled the phone lines for several minutes, the silence finally broken by screeching tires.

"What? What happened?" Bocks asked.

"I missed the turnoff," Mulder mumbled. He threw the car in reverse and backed up to the dirt road and the small, worn sign announcing the road's name. "I found River Ridge. Now where?"

"You'll pass a small cabin about half a mile in. Keep going another two and a quarter miles beyond that and you'll see a fairly good-sized cabin on your left. That's Powers' place."

Mulder took the first part of the dirt road faster than the car's suspension system could handle but he ignored the sharp jarring to his spine. He passed the small cabin, then continued for two miles. Slowing to ten miles per hour for the last quarter-mile, the car barely made a sound on the dirt and loose gravel.

Through a cluster of trees several feet ahead of him, Mulder could see a structure, rough-cut wood trimmed in dark green, with a long porch. He stopped short, then backed the car to keep it out of sight. He got out of the car, his gun in one hand, his phone in the other. He walked a few feet to a looming oak and crouched behind it.

His breath caught as he spied a vehicle parked at the side of the cabin. A Ford Explorer. He read the license plate.

"Moe," he whispered into the phone, "he's here."

Bocks barked an order to someone, then returned to Mulder. "Hang tight. We'll get West Virginia authorities out there as soon..."

Mulder disconnected Bocks, then clicked the phone in the off position, not wanting a ringing phone to give away his approach. He shoved the phone into his jacket and headed toward the cabin.

///////////X///////////

This is it, Dana.

This is what I have been waiting to do for two years. I cannot say I was disappointed that you did not want to eat. It was just a formality, really. An old-fashioned gesture of courtship. I did not want to rush through this, but now that you are here I cannot help myself.

I can barely control my hands, they are shaking so badly. Nervousness, excitement, desire... they are all there, making me light-headed with anticipation. I want so badly to touch you but I'm afraid. Afraid that if I do reach out, you will disappear and this will have been a dream.

Dreams are spontaneous, vivid explosions of hopes and desires. They can be exciting but they are merely fantasies. Only when dreams cross the threshold into reality can they be a source of undeniable pleasure. Just as my dream is doing now. I still cannot believe that you are real, that all of this is real. But it is.

You are here. I am here. Together. Finally, together.

My fantasy has been realized. Not exactly as I had planned, but so close to it I cannot quibble about the tiny discrepancies. See, Dana. It was meant to be. I told you that before, and now you have proof. Fate has delivered you to me. Once you step into the water, you will truly be mine. I will cleanse you with my own hands, a baptism of sorts, scrubbing you clean of the impurities from those who have touched you before, making you fresh as a newborn babe for me. Just for me.

Foregoing breakfast was a good decision. Nothing in that kitchen could satisfy the all-consuming hunger in my belly. There is only one thing that will satisfy me. Your breath is mine to take, your body is mine to possess.

Now, girlie-girl. The time is now.

///////////X///////////

Scully watched through barely focused eyes as Pfaster went to his knees and turned on the faucet, letting the tub fill with water. His hand hesitated over two bottles, indecision furrowing his brow. He finally smiled and reached for a peach-colored bottle. He opened it and liberally poured the contents into the tub. Scully could see fluffy white bubbles forming around the waterfall created by the faucet.

Pfaster took a handful of bubbles and brought them to his nose. He lightly sniffed them and his smile widened. He turned to Scully, his eyes narrowing into a sickening leer. He rose and walked to her. His hand reached out for her hair, his head tilting slowly from side to side and his eyes glazing over in a self-induced trance as he fingered the strands. He blinked, then reached behind her and untied her wrists.

"It's time, Dana," he crooned as he reached for the buttons on her sweater. "Time for your cleansing."

Scully forced the bile down and defiantly raised her chin. The drug was working fast but she still had enough energy to fight, whether it be with her fists or her dignity. Hate and anger had replaced the fear in her body, sending more adrenaline coursing through her veins. If she was to die by his hands, it would not be without a fight.

Despite the sedative-induced haze in her head, it had not gotten past her that a gun lay on a hunter green bath towel next to one of the claw foot legs. A hand towel lay at the opposite end of the tub, a glass pitcher seated next to it.

As much as she was nauseated by the idea, she needed to get into the tub to be near the gun.

"Don't touch me," she spat in a venom-laden voice. "I'll do it myself." She watched as his grin widened and he stepped back to the bath tub. He bent down to retrieve the gun, a silent warning for her to behave.

Her hands shook as she loosened the buttons on her sweater. She shed the material from her shoulders, then unzipped her jeans and leaned against the back of the toilet to lift her hips from the seat. She bit back the pain in her hip as the rough material slid over the puncture wounds where Pfaster had injected her with the sedative. The jeans slid down her legs and she pulled them the rest of the way off with her feet.

She stopped, her eyes downcast, refusing to make eye contact with the monster standing in front of her. She didn't need to see his face to know what was going through his mind. He was viewing her undressing as some erotic striptease normally saved for lovers. Her stomach made another lunge toward her throat.

"The rest of it," he said, his voice thick. "The bra and panties, too."

Scully swallowed hard as she reached behind her back to unhook the satin bra. She let the straps fall from her shoulders, then from her arms and to the floor. She lowered her head, her hair fanning her face like a protective veil. She lifted her hips and quickly shed the panties, her gaze never leaving her lap.

Heavy footsteps approached and she could feel Pfaster looming over her. He reached a hand out to lift her chin. She relented, making eye contact with him for a split-second before defiantly jerking her chin from his hand.

"So beautiful, Dana. I knew you would be."

His hand slowly glided over her neck and shoulder to her upper arm, and he hoisted her from the seat. Scully fought the violent wave of dizziness as she stood. She drunkenly walked to the tub, trying to tug her arm from his hand but his grip was unyielding. She stepped into the tub, the cold water shocking her skin. His grip loosened and she roughly pulled her arm away from him.

The move cost her dearly.

She lost her balance and she landed hard on her rear end, water and bubbles splashing over the sides. Pain shot out of every nerve ending on her body and tears stung her eyes as she cried out. She fought unconsciousness as she felt it approaching and she barely succeeded in keeping it from surrounding her completely.

Pfaster chuckled as his hand went to her hair. "So independent, so stubborn. Aren't you, Dana? You have to be in control. Always in control." His hand tightened around a chunk of her hair and he yanked. "Not anymore, girlie-girl," he whispered roughly. "_I_ am in control now. You belong to me."

Scully's eyes snapped open to find his face close, so close to hers. His eyes were a dark golden-brown, several shades darker than his normal eye color, and they had a disturbing intensity to them.

The eyes of a demon.

Pfaster reached down to retrieve the glass pitcher next to the tub. Finally letting go of her hair, he put the pitcher under the running faucet and filled it. He slowly poured the contents of the pitcher onto her head, his hand smoothing over her hair to distribute the water evenly.

Scully closed her eyes and shivered. She heard Pfaster begin to hum a nondescript tune in a breathy tenor, and she took that as a sign that his guard was lowered. She had to keep up the facade that she had relinquished control to him. Surprise would be her only ally.

After pouring another pitcherful of water on her head, he placed the pitcher on the floor and turned off the faucet. Her eyes opened to narrow slits, and she saw Pfaster reach for a thin white bottle. He popped the top and squirted the coral-colored contents onto his palm. He raised his hand to his nose and sniffed.

"Hmmm, wonderful," he cooed, moving his hand to her nose. "Here, smell. This will smell so good on you, Dana."

Scully pretended to sniff, then turned her head away from his hand. She slowly turned back to see him putting more shampoo in his hand before rubbing the liquid between his hands. He smiled and raised his arms, his hands parting and going to each side of her head.

A loud thump caused both of their heads to turn toward the door. Pfaster looked at her, then at his hands. He grabbed the hand towel sitting next to the pitcher and rubbed his hands furiously.

Scully watched him long enough to see him reach for the towel. She held her breath as one thought entered her mind.

The gun.


	8. Chapter 8

Jim Powers' cabin Lost River, WV Thursday, 7:20am

Mulder ran to the back end of the Explorer. The passenger side was next to the cabin, so he went around the driver's side, using the Explorer as cover to get closer. He peered through the driver's side window. Scully's keys were still in the ignition.

How had Pfaster managed such luck? He had surprised Scully when she was alone and not near her gun, and she had her keyring. Had he planned it that way, planned on finding her keys and taking her vehicle, or was he just winging it and good fortune happened to smile upon him?

Mulder shook the thought as he went around the front of the Explorer and hopped over the railing of the porch. Crouched next to the large bay window, he slowly edged his head toward the glass. He peeked around the end of the wooden shutter into the living room. He was taken aback by seeing the dinner table in front the fireplace.

*What the hell...* he thought as he saw the table set with two off- white plates and two matching coffee mugs. Mulder's brow furrowed in confusion. *He kidnapped her and then made her breakfast?* He took a deep breath, trying to rid himself of the gnawing dread eating away at his stomach.

He needed a way in. The front door looked intact. Pfaster hadn't entered from there. Taking another quick look around at the layout inside, he spied a back door adjacent to the kitchen. He squinted and saw one of the four panes of glass had been shattered. Pfaster's point of entry.

Mulder jumped the railing again and headed toward the back of the cabin. As he passed a small, high window, he heard the sound of water running. It had to be the window in the bathroom. Running water. Someone was drawing a bath.

He shuddered, a lump forming in his throat. *Oh, God. Please tell me I'm not too late. No, I'm not. She's still alive. She is, I know it.*

Mulder broke into a sprint and turned the corner to find the back door immediately to his right. He eyed the broken pane of glass as he tried the doorknob, finding the door unlocked. He slowly opened the door, listening for any signs of squeaking in the hinges. He only opened the door wide enough to fit himself through. He walked on the balls of his feet, carefully avoiding the shards of glass on the wood flooring. The element of surprise would be his only hope, so a silent approach was essential.

He continued through the kitchen, eyeing the plates of food as he went. Fluffy yellow-white eggs dotted with green and orange. Strips of bacon arranged in a way where no strip overlapped another. Six slices of toast, the top one covered in a clear purple gelatin. His stomach moved toward his throat as he looked at the perfectly domestic surroundings. It could have been a scene taken from any couple's life: a romantic get-away at a cabin in the woods, two lovers starting their day with breakfast but unable to separate their bodies long enough to fill them with sustenance. Food goes untouched as other hungers are satisfied.

Mulder violently shook the thought from his head as he moved slowly into the living room, his gun trained on the long hallway where he could hear water running. Moving through the living room, he eyed a wood and glass gun case that had been obscured from his view when he had looked in through the front window. Mulder looked in the case. One hook looked suspiciously empty.

His head turned toward the hallway when he heard the water shut off. Listening carefully, Mulder heard a muffled male voice, and he caught a few words: "...wonderful... smell... on you, Dana."

Mulder's breath quickened at the sound of her name. Was she still alive? He couldn't hear any response from her. *Scully, why aren't you responding? Why aren't you telling this bastard to get the fuck away from you?!*

He moved toward the hallway, but by accident, he brushed against broken door of the gun case. It was a light bump, but enough to send the door swinging and slamming against the wall. Mulder cursed himself mentally.

He stood absolutely still, his gun pointed at the hallway. He heard Pfaster's voice again, a disturbing monologue that sent waves of nausea crashing through Mulder's stomach. He waited for what seemed an eternity before he took one step forward.

*Hang on, Scully.*

Mulder took another step. He could hear Pfaster speaking but the words were unclear.

*You're fine. I know you are, Scully. I can feel it.* He brought his foot up and placed it in front of the other.

His shoe hit the carpet as a gunshot pierced the silence.

///////////X///////////

What was that sound?

Nothing. It was nothing.

Just my imagination. Or maybe a bird flew in through the broken window on the back door.

Do birds make a thumping noise when they fly?

Stop it! The sound was nothing. Nothing.

God, I hate my paranoia! This is my moment, and nothing or no one is going to ruin it for me, certainly not some stupid imaginary sound. I have work to do.

"You hair will be freshly washed, your body freshly cleansed and then it will be my turn. Fate has deemed it so. Possession is nine- tenths of the law. Right, Dana?"

I said that out loud, didn't I? From the look in your eye, I guess I did. I like talking to you, Dana. For two years, I have been talking to you in my dreams, telling you everything I would do when I came for you. Now, finally, you will know. You will hear my words and see them become reality.

My words are for only you, Dana. Only you. You and the bird in the next room...

God damnit! Where is that damn hand towel? I have to check out that sound. I know my mind will not leave it alone until I see with my own eyes it was nothing. Damnit! Another inconvenience. Another break in my stride. Well, no matter. A few minutes will make no difference in...

What the...

"No!"

The gun. You have the gun. How did you...

"Put it down, girlie-girl."

You can't do this to me, Dana. You won't pull the trigger. You know this was meant to be. I told you it was and you were ready for me. You knew I would come for you and I did. This was meant to be, you and I were meant to be.

"Don't do it."

Your eyes, why are they so hateful, Dana? I can see the hate in them, directed at me. I have done all of this for you, for us. How can you hate me for that? How can you...

"No, wait. You don't want to... NOOOOOOO!!!!"

You BITCH! You can't DO this to me! You are MINE, Dana! MINE! You will pay for this! I am in control, girlie girl! I am...

"NOOOO!!!!"

Ah... ah, God! It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was perfect... everything was perfect... just like my dream. You can't do this... you can't take this... away from me...

"YOU ARE MINE... GIRLIE-GIRL... AND... I AM...."

///////////X///////////

Mulder flattened himself against the wall of the hallway at the sound of the gunshot. He heard a high-pitched scream immediately following the shot. It took Mulder a fraction of a second to realize it was a male voice screaming the word "NO!"

"Scully!" Mulder yelled toward the lighted room.

A second shot rang out. Then a third. Something, or someone, hit the floor with an echoing thud. A fourth shot sounded, followed by two clicks.

Mulder sprinted to the bathroom. His mouth opened to say her name but he wasn't prepared for the sight before him, and his throat closed before he could speak.

On the floor was Donnie Pfaster, his body motionless. One bullet had hit his chest, another went into his shoulder, and at least one had blown off the left side of his face. Mulder raised his eyes to find Scully staring at the body. She was surrounded by bubbles and water, her hair wet and her body unclothed. She clutched the gun with such intensity her knuckles were ghostly white. Her eyes were wide and dark, and the look of horror and rage on her face sent Mulder's heart into his stomach.

Mulder swallowed hard. "Scully?"

Her eyes blinked but her gaze remained on Pfaster.

"Scully," he said more forcefully. "Look at me."

His words jarred her, and the gun dropped from her grip and clanked on the tiled floor. She looked up at him, her gaze locking with his for a brief eternity before she sank back into the water. Mulder stepped over Pfaster and went to her, kneeling before the tub. He panicked at the sight of her: eyes hooded, body shaking, head lolling back and forth.

"Scully, it's me. Scully? I need you to stay awake, OK?"

Her head nodded infinitesimally. "Drugged. Seconal."

"I know, Scully. I know. I don't want you going into shock. Can you stand up?"

"I... think so," she said, her words slurred and thick.

He took her hands in his and helped her to her feet. She swayed, then her legs gave out and she started to fall. Mulder grabbed her around her waist and pulled her against him.

"Hang on," he said as one arm went under her knees and the other went to her back. He lifted her out of the tub, ignoring the cold water sloshing on his clothes, and he looked for a place to put her down. *Not in here,* he thought as he eyed the blood- splattered floor. He stepped over Pfaster's body again and walked down the hallway, following it to a bedroom.

Mulder carefully placed her on the mattress, then reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed and draped it over her. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand lazily brushing wet strands off her face.

Her eyes opened and a tiny smile formed on her lips. "What took you so long?"

He laughed, a sound somewhere between joy and relief. "Knicks game went into overtime," he retorted half-heartedly. "You should stay awake."

"I know," she whispered as she tried to pull herself up. Mulder helped her into a sitting position with her back against the headboard. He pulled her forward and quickly wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and draped the rest over her torso and thighs.

"Sheriff's department should be here any minute," he said, his hand clutching hers. "What happened in there, Scully? I know you'll have to give a statement but I..."

Her hand squeezed his lightly. "No, it's OK. I... there was a sound outside the room and... he went to wipe his hands on a hand towel... His gun was sitting on another towel at the opposite end of the tub..."

Scully sighed and her shoulders slumped. "I don't remember pulling the trigger, Mulder," she whispered. "I remember him reaching for the towel and then... then you came into the room. I don't remember what happened..."

Mulder ran a hand over her upper arm in a soothing stroke. "It's OK, Scully. You're fine, you're going to be OK." He repeated the words in his head, trying to convince himself that she _was_ going to be all right. His head turned as he heard voices at the front of the cabin. "I'll be right back." He gave her hand a quick squeeze and he left the room, closing the door behind him.

He proceeded down the hall until he was stopped, at gunpoint, by a uniformed deputy.

"Hey, whoa. I'm the good guy," Mulder said, his voice humorless. "If you'll check the left inside pocket of my jacket, you'll find my ID."

The deputy regarded him warily, then stepped forward and retrieved the ID. He read it, looked at Mulder, then lowered his gun. "Agent Bocks from the Minneapolis Bureau office called this in. We weren't sure if it was legit or not."

"It is," Mulder stated somberly. He paused as another deputy walked up beside the first. "We need an ambulance. The victim is a 33-year-old female, 110 pounds, no known allergies to medications. She's been given an overdose of secobarbital sodium. She's conscious but lethargic. That drug needs to be pumped out of her system."

"Closest hospital is pretty limited in what it can handle," the second deputy said. "If she can wait, I think it would be better to ship her to Keyser General. Should take about fifteen minutes for the ambulance to arrive."

"I want her to have the best possible care," Mulder replied firmly.

"I'll call it into Keyser," the second deputy said as he walked away, his portable radio next to his face.

"The... suspect is in the bathroom," Mulder continued, directing his words to the first deputy. "Fatal gunshot wound to the head, two more to the chest and shoulder." He lead the deputy to the bathroom, and he heard a low whistle from the young man.

"You shot him?"

Mulder shook his head. "He was dead before I stepped into the room."

The deputy's eyebrows arched. "The _victim_ shot him? Damn good shot."

"Yes, she is," Mulder said as he started to gather Scully's clothing. "She's my partner."

The deputy nodded knowingly, no further explanation needed. "Where is she now?"

Mulder pointed down the hallway. "The bedroom. Give me a few minutes to help her get dressed before you question her."

The deputy nodded again, then quickly left, barking orders as he went.

Mulder watched him for a few seconds, then moved to the bedroom door. He opened it slowly and saw Scully's head turn toward him. "Hey. I brought your clothes. Ambulance will be here in about fifteen minutes. They want to talk to you but I asked them to give us a few minutes."

Scully nodded and took the clothes from his hands. She slipped on her panties first, her face contorting with the effort it took to lift her hips from the bed. She sat up and put the sweater around her shoulders, slowly threading her arms through the sleeves. She started on the buttons but her hands were shaking so badly she couldn't manage the tiny pearlized circles. Mulder's hands stilled hers and stayed until she loosened her grip on the sweater. She lowered her hands and let him button the sweater for her.

She mumbled a "thanks" but refused to lift her gaze from her lap. A dozen innuendoes entered his mind but he didn't dare utter even the mildest one. He could tell how uncomfortable she was, not necessarily with her nudity, but with the fact that because of the drug clouding her mind, she was having trouble doing something as simple as dressing herself.

"They'll want to know what happened," he said as he fastened the last button, "and if Pfaster..." He let his words trail off.

"Mulder, he didn't rape me," she said shakily, her gaze meeting his for the first time since she began dressing. "I undressed myself. The gun was by the bath tub. I had to get near it and the only way I could was to..."

Mulder shook his head and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Scully, you don't have to justify anything. You did what you had to do in order to survive. That's all that matters. You survived."

She nodded once, then let him help her into her jeans. The only sound in the room was the rustling of clothing and her labored breathing. He didn't know what to say to her. He was relieved she was alive but worried about her mental state. She would never admit to him the depths to which this was affecting her. He wanted to say something, something that would let her know she could trust him with her fears and emotions.

Her voice, an unfamiliar, timid version of itself, broke the silence. "Mulder, is he..."

"Yes," he interrupted with a whisper. "Pfaster is dead. He's gone, Scully. It's over."

She nodded quickly, then lowered her head and began to toy with one of the buttons on her sweater. Mulder hadn't realized she was crying until he saw her body begin to shake with wracking sobs. He slowly put his arms around her. At first she stiffened in his embrace but within seconds he felt her lean into him, burying her face in his T-shirt, wetting the material with her tears.

Mulder knew nothing he could say or do would bring her more comfort than letting her rid herself of the pain and fear through her tears. It was a normal reaction but one he knew Scully rarely allowed, even in private. He was aware of the sedative's effect on her, cracking her self-constructed armor just enough to allow what she would consider a moment of weakness.

A moment of weakness amidst hours of terror.

She shifted against him and he loosened his embrace. He heard her sniffle, then felt her pull away. She wiped errant tears with the sleeves of her sweater. Their heads turned as they heard a light rapping at the door.

"I can hold them off..."

Scully shook her head as she reached for a tissue on the nightstand. "No. I want to get it over with. I'm fine now."

"I know you are, Scully," Mulder replied, smiling at her choice of words. "Do you want me to leave for this?"

"It's not necessary." Her eyes met his, a silent request asking him to stay. He answered with a nod, as no words were needed. Behind the bluish-green of her eyes, he could see the fire returning but it was a tiny glimmer of its normal brilliance. But he was relieved to see it there, fighting to be noticed.

As he walked to the door to usher in the deputy, Mulder knew his partner would be fine. She would get through the questioning with dry eyes and a steady voice. She would be the consummate professional despite the near-poisonous level of a sedative in her system. Despite the horror and humiliation she had faced in the few hours that Donnie Pfaster held her in a nightmare she almost didn't escape.

Mulder knew his partner would get through the ordeal. A little more of her faith in humanity would disappear, but Scully would bounce back. She always did. She just needed time.

A moment of weakness amidst a lifetime of courage.


End file.
